


a good man

by ElisAttack



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Auror Credence Barebone, Barebone Family Feels, Boss/Employee Relationship, F/M, Fanmix, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Trans Character, Trick or Treating, and some unintentional misgendering, of exactly one character, some transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-04 14:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12170487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: “Me, brave?  Credence, can’t you see?  You’ve always been the bravest of us all.“Or the one where Grindelwald never came to America, Mary Lou died in the Influenza epidemic of 1918, Chastity is just as magical as Credence, and Modesty’s curiosity knows no bounds.Also the one where Credence feels ill-advised emotions for his employer, and his fractious obscurus seems at least partially responsible for the mistakes he keeps making at work.





	a good man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [intravenusann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/gifts).



> I'm putting the prompt I filled in the endnotes, since it spoils the plot a whole bunch.
> 
> I made a playlist and cover, I didn't sign up to do one, lol, it just sorta happened while writing and while looking at John Singer Sargent's paintings. I found one that reminded me so much of Credence and Modesty, I just had to...
> 
> @intravenusann, you didn't ask for most of this in your prompt, but I figure you won't mind that much, maybe *shrugs*

[spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/elisattacks/playlist/7o3Wl8uDOdaPlJb8TDkAB1) | [rebloggable tumblr link](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/165935268157/me-brave-credence-cant-you-see-youve) | [artwork used](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Portrait_of_%C3%89douard_and_Marie-Louise_Pailleron.jpg)

***

An hour before he is due to report for his first day of work Credence Barebone waits patiently as his little sister ties his necktie.  The stool beneath her creaks, protesting as she stands on her tiptoes, brow furrowed in proper frustration.  She’s spent the last few minutes figuring out the proper way to knot the wool.  Where he had given up, she perseveres.

“If you want to impress your boss, Credence, you’ve got to look the part,”  Modesty had said when she took the reins.  Now as she finishes the knot to her satisfaction, she tucks the tie into his new waistcoat, saying,  “There.  Now you’re ready.”

She hops from the stool and takes his hand.  They walk to the door of their two bedroom flat, a luxury they could not afford without Ivermorny’s reluctantly given reparations.  She swings his hand as Credence plucks his homburg from the coat stand.

“You’ll be good, won’t you?”  He asks Modesty, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear.

“I’m always good.”  She pouts, the picture of innocence.

Credence quirks a brow, disbelieving.  “Chastity said Mrs. Murray complained about you putting ‘devilish’ thoughts into her boys’ heads.”

She rolls her eyes, as cheeky as ever.  “I’ve been telling them ghost stories, from the book Queenie gave me.  It’s not my fault they haven’t got the brains to take them with a grain of salt.”

Credence tugs lightly on one of her curls.  “You know ghosts are real, Modesty.”

She shrugs.  “The stories weren’t written by someone like you.  They were written by someone like me.  To me, ghost stories are just stories.”

Credence smiles sadly.  He knows Modesty feels left out—has felt left out—ever since Tina introduced Chastity and him to magic.  There’s nothing he can do about it.  He filed paperwork claiming that Modesty is a squib, but he lied.  With no magical ancestry that he could find, identifying her as a squib was the only way they could prevent her from being taken away from them.

“I worry that one day you’re going to stumble upon a real haunted house, and instead of running, you’ll taunt the resident poltergeist.”  He bends and laces up the shiny oxfords he spent the better part of last night polishing.  He could have used magic, but he’s lived most of his life without it, and old habits die hard.

“If I’m laughing at him, he’s not doing a good job at being a poltergeist,”  Modesty says quite seriously.

Credence smiles fondly.  No matter how quickly she grows, in his eyes she’ll always be a pudgy fisted infant with a delightful giggle that even Mary Lou could not chase away for long.

Mary Lou had adopted Modesty when she was but a tiny baby.  She had deposited her in Credence’s arms, then forgotten she even existed.  During Mary Lou’s rages, Credence had withstood many a night with an empty belly.  Yet he couldn't bear Modesty’s hungry cries.  Earning money to buy her milk was the reason he took up running.  At first it had been unmarked parcels, but when prohibition passed, he graduated to running liquor.  Chastity started helping after Mary Lou died.

Credence still remembers how he felt to see Modesty’s blue eyes gazing up at him, the corner of a milk soaked rag in her mouth.  He would do anything for her, short of plucking the moon from the sky.  He loves Chastity, but Modesty will forever hold a special place in his heart.

With one last goodbye, he’s out the door, joining all the other men and women as they head out for another long day at work.

Chastity already left at daybreak for her shift at the portkey office.  She started work there while Credence was still in training.  From the stories she spins before bedtime—when they’re all gathered together in front of the coal-stove—it seems a job fraught with magical accidents, foiled attempts at smuggling, and foreign wizards twirling their moustaches, all too keen to flirt.

Chastity says she enjoys the security of it, the warmth, more than when they worked at the docks.  Though Credence imagines she misses the thrill, just as much as he does.  If Tina is to be believed, working for the auror department will be just as thrilling, if not more.

He slips into a nearby alleyway and disapparates.

Credence has been inside the Woolworth building a total of three times.  The first, when they received their citizenship papers.  The second, when he gave his testimony during the forgotten children suit, resulting in reparations enough to pay their rent for the next five years.  The third, when his instructor gave their class of aurors in training a tour.

They were fortunate enough to sit in on a caucus led by the Director of Magical Security herself.  Credence could never forget the way Percival Graves carried herself on that stage, the steely strength in her eyes, and her finely tailored suit, cut in a man’s style.  Everything about her had screamed of power and authority, yet in her address she concerned herself with the wellbeing of the common witch and wizard.

Many of his classmates left the program that day—suffering from the misconceived notion that having a woman running the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was a misstep.  Nevermind that one holds the highest office in the country.

War has always worn a male face, even as Lady Justice carries her sword and scale.

The idea that Director Graves was incapable of doing her job because of her sex did not once cross his mind.  Credence had long ago cast aside the role he was assigned at birth.  The moment he tucked his hair into a newsboy cap, put on a pair of trousers he plucked from a washing line, and began running for the mobsters, he could finally bear seeing himself reflected in passing windows.

They are both so alike—they rejected the roles given to them, deciding to forge their own path.  Credence has always seen Director Graves as a figure to look up to.

As Credence steps out of a crowded lift, standing in front of a massive hall filled with rows upon rows of desks, busy witches and wizards flitting about, he knows he’s reached the auror department.

“Oi!  Quit blocking the lift, boy!”  A man in a sweeping leather coat pushes past, the same homburg as Credence’s own perched on his head.  He quickly steps to the side, out of the way of the rushing wizard, blushing to the tips of his ears.

He nearly trips over his own two feet, but someone catches him by the elbow.  A familiar witch smiles.  “Don’t take it to heart, Fontaine’s a good guy, just not when he’s stressed.”

“Tina,”  Credence says in relief, happy to see a familiar face.  Credence is loath to embarrass her, especially after she risked her career vouching for a hunched over child with scars on his hands, and inky black smoke at his fingertips.

She squeezes his elbow, pulling him deeper into the chaos of the bullpen.  Paper flies in the air, magicked into the shape of birds, and similar paper rats scurry along the floor, dodging his every step.  She leads him to a desk, and deposits him in the spare chair.

She smiles apologetically as he wiggles around in the uncomfortable seat.  “You won’t be assigned your own desk until after you’re done training.”

“You’re going to be my training officer?”  He asks, surprised.  He was expecting to be assigned a random auror.  Tina training him—that cannot be a coincidence.

Tina scratches the back of her neck sheepishly.  “I may have requested you, and Director Graves approved it, she knows you and I are close.”

“Director Graves knows who I am?”  Credence murmurs in awe.

She grins widely, eyes crinkling at the corners.  “Of course!  You achieved the highest scores at the academy.”

“I doubt that alone caught her attention,”  Credence says.  The director does not come across as someone easily impressed by test scores.  Credence always figured he'd have to work hard for years to eventually earn her consideration.

Tina’s cheeks turn pink, and she looks away quickly, fiddling with a stack of memos on her desk.

“Tina?”  Credence asks.

“I talk about you a lot.  The whole department teases me about it.  I’m so sorry,”  she says all in a rush.

“Why should you be sorry?”  Credence asks, perplexed.  Tina and Queenie are his family, practically his third and fourth sister.  He’s happy she thinks the same of him.

A man comes out of nowhere, leaning over the back of Tina’s chair.  “Would you look at that, a mother hen and her chick in their natural environment.”  The man wields a thick metropolitan accent with pride.  Credence once had the misfortune of being interrogated by a no-maj policeman.  He towards hiding his roots, even though the accent slipped through once he got fired up.

 _Sorry_ , Tina mouths at him before she whirls in her seat, pointing a finger right between the man’s eyes.  He goes cross-eyed as he attempts to look at Tina’s dangerously wavering finger.

“Don’t you start with me, O’Brien, I have no qualms about hexing you into tomorrow.”

“I’m teasing you two,”  he says good-naturedly.  “Just here to deliver a message, I think the Captain’s getting tired of drafting up memos in her old age.”

“The message?”  Tina asks.

“Huh?” O’Brien says, distracted as a rather good looking woman sends him a teasing wink, wearing a dress Queenie would love.

“What did Captain Carneirus want?”

“Right.  To see you in her office,”  he says,  “Better hurry, it seemed urgent.”  He checks the large clock on the wall.  “About thirty minutes ago.”

“Mercy Lewis!”  Tina exclaims, standing so fast her chair wobbles.  “O’Brien, one of these days you’re going to stumble across a knee-reversal hex with your name on it!”  She turns to Credence, promising,  “I’ll be right back.”

Once Tina has disappeared, O’Brien summons over a large stack of folders, dumping them on the desk, grinning smugly.  “Chickie, these are for you, courtesy of the department, think of this as our way of welcoming you.”

Credence flips open the first folder, finding handwritten reports that need typing up and filing.  He stares impassively down at the paper, then up at O’Brien’s smug little face.

A flick of his finger has the obscurus seeping out from beneath his nails.  The tendril shoots out, unseen, and slips under the bottoms of O’Brien’s trousers.  A curl of his finger, and O’Brien jumps half a foot in the air, yelping, “What was that?”  He slaps at his calf, chasing away the unseen creature that just nipped him.  The woman the next desk over hides her giggles behind her hand.

Credence tilts his head, lips quirked slightly at the corners.  He pulls forward Tina’s typewriter, feeding a sheet of paper through the platen.  “Must have been one of those paper birds,”  he says,  “I hear a sharp beak is just as dangerous as an offensive spell.”

O’Brien looks at him suspiciously, but Credence ignores him and begins typing up the first report.  He suspects this will take him all day.  He’d better hurry up and finish so he can get home early.  It’s his turn to cook dinner.

***

Credence hands Chastity the last dish.  As she dries it she says,  “Mrs. Murray didn’t complain about Modesty corrupting Eddie and Tommy today.”

“That’s good,”  Credence says, opening the cupboard and putting away the dried dishes,  “Isn’t it?”

Chastity leans against the sink, arms folded over her chest.  “She came to complain about another neighbour.”

“Oh?”  Credence says, twirling a finger so the cupboard closes after him.  If there’s one thing he knows about Chastity, it’s that she hates gossip.  She’s quite fond of informing people of their faults right to their faces.  She’s the second most direct person he knows, after Queenie.  They get along very well.

She shrugs.  “She seems to be under the impression that we’re friends.”

Credence pulls his apron over his head, hanging it on its designated hook.  “I’m taking that’s not the case?”

“After what she called Modesty yesterday?”  Chastity huffs.  “I’d rather befriend a troll.”

“Credence!”  Modesty calls from the living room.

He looks at the kitchen floor which still needs to be swept, then back to Chastity.  She rolls her eyes then makes a shooing gesture with her hand.  “Go see what she wants, I’ll take care of this.”

Credence finds Modesty peering between the gap in the curtains, tiny hands fisted in the fabric as she holds it shut around her face.

“What are you doing?”  He asks in confusion.  She pulls away from the curtains, staticky hair floating about her face like a cloud.

“Investigating,”  she says with a serious expression, then dives back in.  Her voice comes out muffled.  “There’s something fishy happening across the street.”

Credence frowns.  He sticks his head in the gap above Modesty, looking onto the dark street lit only by the light flooding from the neighbours’ houses.  The corner of their street has a gaslight, but it isn’t bright enough to be of any use where they are.  The only house without a light on is the one directly across from their flat.  It’s an old brownstone with a cast iron gate.  Tall pillars bracket the door, topped with relief carvings of gargoyle like creatures, tongues poking out and eyes crossed.

He bets Mrs. Murray hates it more than anything.

“Investigating what?”  He asks, searching for a sign of something, anything.

“What are you two doing?”  Chastity asks, coming up behind them.  They pull their heads from the curtain sheepishly.  The growing smile on Chastity’s lips hints that Credence’s hair has suffered much the same staticky fate as Modesty’s.

“Modesty has seen something,”  he explains.

Chastity frowns, then pushes him aside,  “Let me look.”  She takes Credence’s place above Modesty.  Feeling left out, he stands on his tiptoes and pokes his head through above her.  If anyone walking by glanced to their window, they would see three heads stacked on top of each other.  A ghoulish sight indeed.

“I don’t see anything,”  Chastity sighs.

“Eddie Murray says he saw a witch looking out of the top floor window,”  Modesty says.

“There are two witches looking out of our window, and Eddie Murray is a little idiot.”

“Chastity!”  Credence exclaims.

“I saw him trying to choke down a burning hot chestnut, the seller had to whack him on the back before he finally spit it out,”  Chastity says.

“He is an idiot,”  Modesty nods her head sagely.

Credence sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Don’t let Mrs. Murray hear you say that.”

Modestly puffs out her chest.  “I’m not afraid of Mrs. Murray.”

“Well, I am,”  Credence says with finality in his tone.  She reminds him too much of Mary Lou.  Modesty was too young to remember her cruelty, and Chastity was never the victim of it.  Credence was the sole focus of her displeasure—and her cane.  He was never demure, never ladylike enough for her approval, but he was broad-shouldered, and unconventional enough to attract her wrath.

His two sisters depend on his income to put food on the table, while Chastity’s salary keeps the lights on.  He wants to make them proud.  It’s always been the three of them, struggling to survive, even before Mary Lou succumbed to the influenza.  They’ve braved life together since they were children, but there are some things his sisters will never understand.

“Okay,”  Modesty says, sliding her hand into Credence’s,  “I promise, no angering Mrs. Murray.”

“Thank you, Modesty,”  Credence says gratefully.

She looks over her shoulder, lips pursed as she glares at the brownstone.  “I’m still keeping my eye on that house.”

Credence chuckles.  “I would not expect anything less.”

***

Something must have happened after Credence left yesterday, because when he walked into the department that morning, O’Brien wouldn’t even look in his direction.  He had ducked his head the moment Credence strolled past his desk, and it stayed ducked until he left with Tina.

“Did you talk to O’Brien about yesterday?”  Credence asks as they emerge from an alley, walking along a crowded sidewalk, following up on one of Tina’s open cases.

Tina looks at him, puzzled.  “No, why?  Did he do something that deserves a talking to?”  She asks with a terrible glint in her eye as they quickly cross the street.

“Please don’t hex him,”  Credence pleads.  He wouldn’t want Tina getting in trouble because he cannot fight his own battles.

She stops him with a hand on his shoulder, drawing him out of the crowd.  “I wasn’t going to until right this moment.  What did he do?”

He shakes his head.  “You don’t need to worry about it, someone already talked to him.”

“Credence, _what did he do_?”

Credence hangs his head.  “He gave me all his paperwork, and his friends’ too, I spent all of yesterday doing it while you were working with the captain.”

Her lips go dangerously thin, and her eyes flash with barely restrained anger, but she takes a deep breath, and holds it back.  “Okay, I won’t talk with him.”  She pauses.  “For you, not for him.”

He sighs in relief.  “Thank you, Tina.”

She nudges his shoulder with her own.  “You’re my best boy, you know that, right?”

He smiles.  “I know.”

Credence has known Tina since he was eighteen.  She had tracked Chastity and him to the docks where they worked for two years—always in the dead of night—transporting alcohol from ships to speakeasies in Greenwich Village.

Tina had caught them redhanded, a crate of bourbon in each of their hands.  She reassured them that she wasn’t with the police, but Credence had found that hard to believe.  He had heard that the deputy commissioner was hiring women to infiltrate and bring down the mobs from the inside out, and he wasn’t about to put his sister’s neck on the line.  Credence had been taken in by the police before, and it had not been a pleasant experience.

He had released the smoke then—the magic he had eventually learned was his obscurus.  It had burst from his eyes, from his mouth, and his fingernails too, swarming Tina in black darkness.  She had disappeared with a sharp crack, but he had thought nothing of it, even when they were five blocks away, collapsed atop their crates of cargo, huffing out their exhaustion.

When they had made it home that morning—after retrieving Modesty from their neighbour’s care—Tina had been waiting on their doorstep.

She had said she was the leader of a task force, set out to find and bring into her world the forgotten children.

Chastity and Credence had been just two of a handful of children sent Ilvermorney letters that were destroyed by a guardian.  Until the current headmistress was instated, the Ilvermorney administration never followed up on destroyed letters.  No-maj born children like them were forgotten, until their magic inevitably manifested—sometimes destructively.

Even after their rather unsavoury meeting, Tina had stayed with them every step of the way.  She found a lawyer.  She held their hands as they fought for reparations.  She argued for their custody of Modesty.  Even now, she continues to be there.

They are no longer her responsibility, but she still cares, and she always will care.  That’s just the sort of person she is.

***

“I know you’re in here!”  Tina bangs on the door for what seems like the hundredth time.  Credence is starting to think Eugene Olsen is not home.

Tina is making a rather loud commotion, possibly disturbing the neighbours.  Lo and behold, a blonde woman storms around the corner down the hall, her expression annoyed and ready to fight.

Credence readies himself to calm a soon to be enraged citizen, but the moment she sees Tina in her uniform, the woman’s eyes widen, and all the blood drains from her face.  She traces her steps back around the corner, and Credence hears a door open and shut, followed by the slide of a latch.

Tina never saw her, but Credence definitely did, and her reaction was the epitome of suspicious.

He slides away from Tina who's now murmuring threats under her breath as she pounds on the door.  From what he gained from her notes, a concerned citizen spotted a dangerous smuggler—his face posted on many wanted signs in magical establishments.  Her investigation led her to this flat, but what if the intel was wrong?  What if she has the wrong flat?

Credence knows he should tell Tina about his theory, but he’d hate to waste her time on a gut feeling.

He slips away and turns the corner.  He casts a charm on his ear, then presses it to the door.  With his hearing amplified, he makes out the sound of rustling clothes, the snap of a suitcase latch, a man cussing, then a woman whispering, “Eugene, but when will I see you again?”

 _Eugene_ .  That’s all the proof Credence needs.  He pulls away from the door, points his wand at the lock, and whispers, “ _Alohomora_ ,”  It clicks, and he slips inside.

He walks along the runner, his steps light, like a cat.  Tina makes for a good distraction out in the corridor as he creeps on, wand held at the ready.

The talking is coming from a closed door at the end of the hall.  Credence steals forward.  Pausing right outside the door, he calms his breathing, readying himself for a fight.  The woman is inside too.  Credence has to be extra careful so no harm comes to her.  With that thought in mind, he bursts on through.

“ _Expelliarmus_!”  He shouts, and the wand flies from a surprised Eugene Olsen’s hand.  The stack of bottles he had been levitating drops, shattering on the floor.  A silvery cold liquid splashes on Credence’s trousers, and he stumbles back into the doorframe.  Unicorn blood.  He’s definitely found the smuggler.

Olsen lunges across the room, but not towards Credence.  He grabs the woman’s wand from her hand and points it right at him.  There’s no time to raise a shield.

“ _Avada Kedavra_!”  Olsen shouts.  A flash of green light escapes in a rush, and a loud, splintering crack sounds.  Credence is blasted through the air, right out the bedroom door.  He hits the far wall with a gasp, falling to the ground in a heap.

For a long moment he thinks he’s dead, but the throbbing pain in his skull tells him otherwise.  He moves his aching body, and realizes he’s only alive because the wand rejected Olsen.  Fury flashes in his eyes, and he’s soon climbing to his feet, marching back into the bedroom.

Olsen’s half out the window, climbing onto the fire escape.  The woman shouts as Credence mutters, “ _Incarcerous_ ,”  Rope shoots from his wand, wrapping around her from shoulder to toe.  Olsen is not as lucky.  Credence could control his obscurus, but he has no desire to, not after the man tried to kill him.  Inky black tendrils spill from his mouth, wrapping around Olsen’s wrists.  His eyes widen in petrified fear as the darkness creeps up his arms, holding him steady.

Olsen lets out a horrible scream, just as Tina bursts into the bedroom, shouting, “Credence!”

His obscurus falters and eventually falls from Olsen, retreating back under his fingernails.  Olsen collapses in a dead faint, but Credence makes no move to catch him.  He turns to look at Tina, as he feels the white film over his eyes slide away.

“I’m sorry,”  he whispers sincerely, but she just stares helplessly at him.

***

Tina is silent, as they return to the department, but the worried looks she sends his way say more than words.  She floats along a hogtied Olsen, and the woman they found aiding him.  They’ll have them checked out by a healer, then put in a cell to await trial.

His heart falls into his stomach when he sees who waits at Tina’s desk.

“Auror Lopez,”  Percival Graves addresses Tina’s neighbour,  “Process Mr. Olsen and his accomplice.”

“Director,”  Tina protests, “It’s my fault, not—”

“Tina, Mr. Barebone, follow me,”  She interrupts, her eyes piercing.  She whirls around and marches off.  Credence and Tina are helpless to do anything but follow.

He’s never been inside Director Graves’ office before, but as he sits sullenly in one of her uncomfortable chairs, he accepts that this is both a privilege and a misfortune.  Once he dreamed about being invited in here under better circumstances.  A dream that involved the director praising him for a job well done.  In reality, she stares them down, long fingers steepled on her desk.  Her face is long and serious, made even more severe by the cut of her hair.

“Director,”  Tina speaks up after a long, intimidating silence,  “I should have been watching him—”

The director raises her hand, and Tina snaps her mouth shut.

She stares at Credence, counting down on her fingers as she lists,  “Reckless endangerment of life.  Unauthorized use of obscurial abilities.  Not to mention blatant stupidity.  Mr. Barebone I have half the mind to send you back to the academy.”

Credence chews his bottom lip, casting his gaze down into his lap.  His hands are bunched in his robes, knuckles white with strain.  What will he tell Chastity if he is let go?  Her salary will have to carry most of their expenses, at least until he can find work again.

“I won’t dismiss you, but I really should.  Mr. Barebone?”

“Yes, ma’am?”  He lifts his head hopefully.

“What in Merlin’s name were you thinking?”  She asks, her tone exasperated.  

He furrows his brow.  He made countless mistakes today, but his greatest was the sin of pride.  “I thought I could handle it, ma’am.”

“And could you?”

Credence remembers that flash of green light like it was seared onto his eyeballs.  Only luck got him out of that situation alive.  He shakes his head.

“Then I hope you’ve learned something from this experience,”  the director says.

He looks up, nodding his head.  He made some bad decisions today.  Decisions that almost got him killed, but he recognizes what he did wrong, and knows not to do it again.  In the end, he can only improve from his mistakes

“Good,”  she says firmly, unfolding her hands.  Placing a hand on her chin, elbow on the arm of her chair, she leans back—the picture of comfort in authority.  “Now, Tina.”

“I’m so sorry, Director,”  Tina says pitifully.

“I taught you to be better than this,”  she says,  “You are usually so observant.”

“It won’t happen again, I swear.  I’m just so used to working solo in the field, I forgot about keeping an eye on him,”  Tina spews in a rush.

“He’s not a child, you don’t have to watch everything he does, just guide him.”  She sighs, and her eyes soften, a fond smile sliding onto her face.  “As I did for you when I was your training officer”.

“Of course, Director.”

No wonder the director calls Tina by her first name.  Credence understands enough of their dynamic to realize that when Tina doesn’t do the same for her, it isn’t coldness.  It’s respect.

“Good,”  she says.  “Now get the fuck out of my office.”

“Thank you, ma’am,”  Credence says, rising slowly from his chair, even as Tina leaves in a hurry.

“Mr. Barebone,”  Credence stops.  He meets the director’s dark brown eyes, and finds himself unable to look away.  Passingly, he wonders what it would be like to be on the receiving end of a smile—fond—like the one she gave Tina.  He imagines that the beautiful lines at the corners of her eyes would crease.

“Yes?”  He swallows nervously.

“If auror O’Brien attempts to push his paperwork on you again, tell him that I’ve still got my eye on him.”  She tilts her head ever so slightly, tapping at the bridge of her nose.  

Credence blinks in surprise.  He never would have guessed that the director stopped O’Brien’s hazing.  Someone must have reported it to her, yet she didn’t shrug off the complaint, nor did she put it down to the establishment of office hierarchies.  She actually followed up on it, and made O’Brien stop, even though she never met Credence.

She quirks a brow at his silence, and he nods sharply once, willing away the blush that threatens to spill over his cheeks.

“Yes, Director,”  he mumbles.

Once he leaves her office—shutting the door behind him with a click—he lets out the shaky breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.  Credence has never considered himself a man quick to develop an infatuation, but his heart is racing faster than it ever has before.

***

Credence sits at the kitchen table with a frown on his face.  Papers are scattered about as he drafts his report for the incident.  Modesty slips into the kitchen, and he doesn’t even notice until she’s standing right behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“What’s an unforgivable curse?”  She asks curiously, resting her tiny chin on his shoulder.

“It’s a spell magical persons are forbidden from using,”  he explains.

“Because they hurt other people?”

He nods.  “Because they hurt other people.”

After a moment of silence, she says,  “Something’s wrong Credence.”  He turns around to look at her, putting his pen down and giving her his full attention.

“What is it?”  He asks.

“The house across the street, something funny is going on this time, for sure.”

“Modesty,”  Credence sighs, rubbing at his forehead,  “I have work to do, I’ll look at it when I’m done?”  He tries to compromise, but she just shakes her head.

“Now, Credence, it has to be now.  I know you’re struggling, but you can finish it later.”  Credence glances helplessly at the report.  At the most he’s written a paragraph during the last hour and he’s already crossed out most of it.  “Please, Credence?”  Modesty begs,  “It’ll take your mind off work.”

With a tired sigh he relents, following after Modesty.  He’s surprised to see that instead of heading for the window, she walks to the front door, slipping on her coat, pulling down Credence’s as well.

They emerge onto the chilly street, the autumn wind blowing in from the east.  Modesty crosses the street, and Credence hurries to catch up with her.

They stand in front of the old brownstone, their hands tucked in their pockets.  Dead leaves, fallen from some faraway tree, rustle in the gutter, blowing over their shoes.

The house looks the same as ever.  Oxblood curtains block the interior of the house from view, adding to the overwhelming sense of mystery.

He shuffles his feet, feeling the cold through his trousers.  “I hope you’re not planning on knocking?”  He asks, half joking.  He really hopes she isn’t, but knowing Modesty, anything’s possible.

“Can you sense anything weird?  Otherworldly?”  She asks, pulling him closer to the house, even as he digs in his heels, reluctant to go.

“I’m not a magic detector,”  he protests.

“No, but you are magic,”  she argues.  She’s not wrong.

He cannot pull out his wand on a busy street, but he can use subtle wandless magic.  He casts a weakened detection spell, but nothing is revealed, no ghosts, no ghouls, no witches.

“Well?”

“Nothing.”

Modesty purses her lips, and then to Credence’s surprise she walks up the front steps.  With her index finger tapping away on her chin, and a pair of furrowed brows, she inspects the carvings beside the door.

“ _Modesty_ ,”  Credence harshly whispers.  He checks either side of the sidewalk, sees no one on the deserted street, then looks above.  None of the curtains have moved an inch.  He follow her up the steps.  Credence takes her hand, hoping to tug her back down to the safety of their home, but she stands firm.  “What are you doing?  Come on let's go home.”  He looks over his shoulder, to cover all his bases.

“Try the spell here,”  she says.

“What?  I can't do that, this is private property.  If a witch lives here, they’ll definitely notice.”  From this close, he sees a carving of what might possibly be a welsh green dragon, but then again, no-majs also have winged lizards in their mythology.

She snorts.  “I thought you said Eddie Murray was an idiot?”

“I never said that,”  he argues,  “That was you and Chastity, not me.”

“What in God’s name are you two doing up there?”  Credence nearly jumps a foot in the air when the voice comes from behind them.  He turns around sheepishly.

Mrs. Murray stands at the bottom of the steps, her hands covered in flour, wearing an apron.  She must have seen them through her kitchen window, then come to investigate.

Credence opens and shuts his mouth a few times, but is unable to come up with a good excuse.  His heart beats like a metronome against his ribcage as Mrs. Murray’s piercing eyes dig holes deep enough to make him shatter.  Being confronted by her makes him feel like he’s ten years old all over again, caught sneaking bread from the church’s kitchen.

“Chastity made extra cream puffs.  We’re going around and asking the neighbours if they want some,”  Modesty lies, breaking the heaviness of the moment.  She looks at Credence worryingly.

“Is that so?”  Mrs. Murray says with an unbelieving huff,  “Then why didn’t you ask me if I wanted one?”

“Tommy mentioned that you’re watching your diet,”  Modesty says,  “We figured we’d save you the temptation, Chastity’s cream puffs are to die for.”

“Fine,”  Mrs. Murray says sharply,  “Just get down from there.”  She waves her hand and both of them walk down the stairs.  Modesty stands in front of him like she could protect him from Mrs. Murray‘s displeasure, a move he greatly appreciates.

“A satanist must live there,”  Mrs. Murray continues, quite miffed, glaring at the house like she could will it to catch on fire.  “Eireen told me her laundress’ great-aunt’s baby went missing down the street thirty years ago.  The demon summoned in that house certainly took it.”

“Would you care to ask Mr. Murray if he’d like a cream puff?”  Modesty asks, wisely ignoring everything she just said.

“Certainly not!”  She shrills, turning her burning gaze to Modesty.  “Your sister’s sinful puffs would ruin the shape of Fergus’s waistcoat.”

She shrugs off Mrs. Murray’s displeasure like it’s nothing, “Your loss.”  Modesty takes Credence’s hand, pulling him back across the street.  “Have a nice evening!”

Once they’re safely back inside, Credence sits on the sofa, his head in his hands.  “That was horrible,”  he mutters.

“Don’t worry.”  Modesty pats the crown of his head.  “I’ll protect you from Mrs. Murray, so long as you protect me from whatever lives in that house.”

Credence groans.  “You’re going to make me go back, aren’t you?”

Modesty sends him a winning smile.  “Of course!”

***

Credence holds a toasty bag of roasted chestnuts in his gloved hands as he walks through the Woolworth building lobby.  He’s waiting in front of the lift when he senses someone standing beside him.  He pays them no mind, instead pulling off a glove and opening the bag to take a nut out, unable to resist.

“Mr. Barebone, don’t drop any of those shells on Red’s floor, he’ll have your hide.”

Credence fumbles, the bag falling from his grasp.  He manages to catch it at the last second, but his ungloved hand touches the bottom, and he hisses when it burns.

“Fuck,”  Director Graves swears, surprising him even more.  She takes the bag then pulls him to the side.  The lift opens, but they both ignore it as their colleagues step inside, the door closing behind them.  “I apologize for startling you,”  she says sincerely.

Credence looks down at her, his brow furrowed in pain.  He shudders when she pulls his burnt hand forward.  Her fingers are as cold as an icy winter’s morning.  She must have just returned from lunch.

His hand is clenched tight in a fist, but with a gentle touch, he unfurls for her.  The skin is beet red, half from the cold, half from the burn.  Her fingers, nails neatly trimmed, sweep over the burnt skin, and a rush of icy relief follows.

Credence sighs as the pain dissipates, but he misses her touch the moment she pulls back.  She hands him the chestnuts, and he makes sure to grip the bag from the rolled top.

“Thank you,”  he says.

She nods, then presses the button for the lift.  “How goes your training with Tina?”  She asks conversationally.

He fiddles with a stray thread from his coat, tugging on it so it unravels.  “She’s teaching me more than the classroom ever could.  Not that my instructor was insufficient,”  he says hurriedly,  “It’s just that…”  He trails off.

“...fieldwork is a different kind of beast,”  she finishes his thought, just as the lift arrives.

The ride up is silent—through Red’s sly expression as he looks between them is terribly loud.  They walk through the bullpen, stopping right by Tina’s empty desk.

“I don’t suppose you'd like a chestnut?”  He offers the now significantly cooler bag, not expecting her to actually take one.  She surprises him, however, when she reaches in the bag.

“I love chestnuts,”  she leans against Tina’s desk,  “A seller roasts them right at the corner of my street.”

“One also sells on my street,”  he says, putting the bag down and taking a nut for himself,  “Luckily enough, since my sisters love them.”

“You have sisters?”  She blows on her fingers as she peels the chestnut, disappearing the shells with a snap.  “How many, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Two.”

“Older or younger?”  She pauses,  “Or perhaps you are the middle child?”  She bites into the chestnut with caution, the tip of her pink tongue peeking from between her lips.  Credence takes special care to avoid looking at her mouth.  He smiles down at the bag instead, remembering the first time Chastity bought Modesty chestnuts.  She had burnt herself, much the same as Credence just did, but she still ate them with pained tears in her eyes.

“I’m the eldest.  Modesty’s still in school—not Ilvermorney.”  He bites his lip, searching for her reaction.  To his surprise, she doesn’t even blink, just finishes the rest of her nut.  Her reaction is drastically different than that of every witch or wizard who believes in stereotypes about squibs.

Her mouth lifts at the corners, like she knew he was testing her.  “Mr. Barebone, public service is the greatest vocation a witch or wizard could ever dedicate themselves to.  To work in government, means that one works for the people—including every citizen of MACUSA, magical or not.  Some tend to forget this, but I certainly have not.”  She looks at him kindly.  “And I know you will not either.”

He feels his cheek rush with blood.  To distract himself, he grabs the bag of chestnuts, offering it to her again.  “Would you like another one?”

She chuckles, and his breath catches as he sees her eyes crinkle with laughter.  It’s exactly as beautiful as he thought it would be.  She takes a chestnut with a smile.  “Thank you, Mr. Barebone.”  She lifts herself off the desk.  “I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Ma’am,”  he whispers in goodbye to her retreating back.

Later, as he sits at Tina’s desk with his hands on his burning cheeks, looking down at a report without reading it, Tina slides into the other chair.

“Are you alright?”  She asks him worriedly, placing the back of her hand over his forehead.  “You’re looking feverish.”

“Tina,”  Credence says weakly,  “How do you know for certain when you’re in love?”

Tina just stares at him for one long moment, looking incredibly flabbergasted.  She licks her lips, eyes flicking away, then back again,  “Um,”  she says tellingly.

“You don’t know, do you?”

“I… uh… I think Queenie would be the better witch to talk to,”  she stumbles over her words,  “She’s had fellas before.  I’ve been so busy with my career, I haven't really considered… uh... matrimony?”

Credence takes pity on her.  “We don’t have to talk about this.”

She lets out an incredible sigh of relief.  “Mercy Lewis, thank you, I was a second away from running.”

Credence smiles and pats her hand.  He picks up the paper bag, “Chestnut?”

***

Chastity has known about his darkness for years, but it still frightens her terribly.  She always put on a brave face when he used the obscurus to protect them—even before they knew what it was—but he can tell that the strangeness of it terrifies her.

She’s one of the best people he knows.  After Mary Lou’s death, he told her that he would never again wear a dress.  He wanted to live his life on his terms.  She had simply looked at him, then nodded her head in acceptance.  He hates to think about what might have happened if she had spent any more years in Mary Lou’s care.

Credence’s magic darkened because of Mary Lou’s abuse.  Chastity’s magic made itself known in more subtle ways.  She was always physically strong, stronger than a girl of her stature had any right to be.  She could carry crates filled with heavy bottles at just thirteen years of age, even better than Credence could at fifteen.

Even now as she lifts the ice box with one hand, sweeping under it with the broom, Credence thinks the image of his dainty sister managing such feats of strength is quite a sight indeed.

“Modesty’s school fees are due soon,”  she says.

“I’ll pay them as soon as soon as my paycheque arrives.”  He’ll have to go to the bank to exchange for no-maj currency.  Their household uses dollars more than they ever use dragots.  The wizarding world’s separate currency still baffles him.  It just seems impractical.

Chastity collapses on the chair opposite him when she’s done cleaning, pouring herself a cup of water from the jug on the kitchen table.  Modesty has already been tucked in bed with a bellyful of milk and honey, Credence made sure of it.

“Say,”  Credence begins.  Chastity’s blue eyes meet his over her glass.  “Have you ever been in love?”  She makes a terrible sputtering noise, and water spills down her chin.  Putting the glass down, she wipes her chin with the back of her hand.

“Why do you ask?”

Credence draws a circle on the table mat with his pinky.  He’s not sure she will react well if he tells her about his feelings for the director.  She’s much older than him, and his superior officer to boot.  Surely his feelings will be frowned upon.

“Credence,”  Chastity says, drawing his attention,  “You’re a good man, anyone would be lucky to have you, but to answer your question, no, I’ve never been in love.  I thought I was a few times, but I eventually realized what it really was.”

“What was it?”  He asks curiously.

“Lust.  One of Ma’s seven deadly sins.  I am a paragon of it,”  she chuckles,  “I’m surprised you never noticed.”

Credence frowns.  “I trust your judgement, Chastity.  When you tell me you’re going out with friends, I always believe you.”

She smirks.  “I do go out with _friends_ , believe me.”

He blushes, but rolls his eyes anyway.  “How do I tell that what I feel isn’t just lust?”

“That’s for you to decide, it’s not something I can tell you.”  She drains her glass with one gulp, rising from her chair.  “Everyone feels things differently, no one is exactly the same.”  She grips him by the shoulder.  “I’m going to bed, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Chastity,”  he says.

She kisses his cheek.  “Sweet dreams, brother.”

***

When he comes home from work in the evening, he finds Modesty sitting on their building steps, tears in her eyes.  Crouching in front of her, he pulls her coat closed against the wind.

“What’s wrong?”  He asks, combing her hair out of her face.  Her cheeks are blotchy, like she was crying a while before he returned home.  His heart clenches in fear.  “Did someone hurt you?”

Shakingly, she lifts her hands from her lap, showing Credence the red welts streaked along her palms.  Dumbly, he stares at them, long enough that Modesty asks in a small voice,  “Credence?”

“Who did this to you?”  He asks, his tone impossibly flat, even to his own ears.  Modesty sniffs, her tiny nose scrunching, more tears falling from her eyes.  “Please, Modesty, who was it?”

“Mrs. Murray.  She said I deserved it for showing Eddie the carvings on the haunted house.”

He purses his lips in a thin line.  “You know you didn’t deserve it, right?  Mrs. Murray was in the wrong.  She shouldn’t have raised her hand against you.”

She nods.  “I know.”

He picks Modesty up, balancing her on his hip, even though she’s much too big to be carried anymore.  She tucks her face in his neck, and wraps her legs around his hips, the ways she used to when she was still a toddler.  He carries her up the stairs, to their flat, depositing her on a chair in the kitchen.  Grabbing a towel, and a chunk of ice from the icebox, he instructs Modesty to hold onto it, until the swelling goes down.

Picking her up again, he carries her over to the couch, then sits down beside her.  Touching her cheek, he asks,  “Would you like me to read you a story?”  She nods her head.  “Which one?”

“ _The Conqueror Worm._ ”

He smiles at her, puzzled.  “By Poe?”

She sniffs.  “Queenie gave me the book.  It’s on my bedside table.”

Credence doesn’t mention the fallacy of reading horror before going to sleep, he just gets up and fetches the book—a hefty collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s works.  He flips to the poem Modesty requested, and begins reading.

Modesty falls asleep on his shoulder halfway through the third poem.  Gently, he extricates himself from her arms, rearranging, and draping a blanket over her.

He strokes her soft blonde hair from her face.  The contrast of his marred flesh, pitted with deep scars from Mary Lou’s cane, against her unblemished skin has him pulling back.  His hands clench in fists at his sides.  He was supposed to protect her from people like Mary Lou—people who think it is discipline to hit a child until they bleed.

He takes the wet towel to the kitchen, throwing it in the enamel sink.  With his hands braced on the edge, he thinks about what he should do.

Credence never confronted his abuser, and he regrets it to this day.  He realizes he was a child, and that she would have hurt him even more if he had fought back.  Some days he wonders what it would have felt like to let loose the obscurus on her.  What his life would have been like if the smoke had swallowed her whole, long before she had the chance to damage him irreparably.

Clenching his jaw, he makes his decision.

He leaves his wand on a shelf out of Modesty’s reach, rationalizing it as a preventative measure so he doesn’t do anything stupid.  Shutting the door behind him silently, he walks up the flight of stairs to the Murray’s flat.

Rapping his knuckles on their door, he prepares to face the woman who reminds him of the one person he still fears more than anyone else, even though she is already nine years in the ground.

The door opens to a heavyset man with a thick walrus mustache, a cigarette hanging from his lips.  He looks Credence up and down, and snorts,  “What’d you want?”

“Is your wife here?”  Credence asks, trying not to cough as the man blows smoke in his face.

“What’s it to you?”

Credence screws together his courage and pushes past the man.  Mrs. Murray stands in the kitchen doorway, a hand on her hip, the spoon she probably used to beat Modesty in the other.

Credence stands in the middle of their living room, a good six feet away from her.  “You had no right,”  he says calmly.

“What did you say?”  She asks, cupping her hand to her ear.  “You’re going to have to speak louder.”

Mr. Murray stands impassively by the door and puffs away at his cigarette, thick arms folded over his chest.

“You had no right to touch my sister!”  Credence exclaims in frustration.  The room falls into silence, until all he can hear is the bubbling of a pot on the stove, and the ticking of a grandfather clock.

“Your sister,”  Mrs. Murray begins slowly,  “Is a devil of a child who needs discipline in her life.  Since you seem to be doing an insufficient job, I took it upon myself to be a good neighbour.”

His fingernails dig into his palms.  “I don’t want you coming anywhere near her.”

Her eyes trail down to his clenched fists—to his scars.  Mrs. Murray laughs and it sounds like the shattering of glass.  “Your mother was unable to beat the deviancy out of you, so believe me, I was doing you a favour.”

“I mean it,”  he says through clenched teeth,  “Stay away from her, or I’ll—”

“Or, you’ll what?  Throw a fit?”  Mr. Murray growls.  “You can wear trousers all you want, but they’ll never make you a man.”  The larger man approaches.  If Credence is lucky, he will just be thrown from their flat.  Realistically, he’s expecting at least a black eye.  He chews at his bottom lip, biting down his unproductive fear.  He cannot let this effort be for naught.

Since words have done nothing for him, he uses the only thing that has ever worked.  Whipping back to Mrs. Murray, he lets his eyes bleed to white.  She drops her spoon with a clatter on the tile.

He hisses,  “I’ll let you use your imagination.”

He’s grabbed by the collar of his shirt and yanked backwards.  He lets his eyes return to normal as he is flung from the flat.  Before the door is slammed in his face, he sees Mrs. Murray collapsed on her knees, her eyes wide in fear.  He smiles in satisfaction, even as the weight of what he’s done has his victory fading to numbness.

He returns home, avoiding Chastity’s knowing gaze as he climbs on a stool, pulling his wand from its hiding place.

“Modesty told me what happened before I put her to bed.  Are you alright?”

“I will be,”  he says,  “Though I imagine I’ll be out of a job tomorrow.”

She sighs, rubbing her forehead.  “I wish you waited for me to get home.  I would have punched her so hard she would have seen stars.  No magic needed.”  Credence laughs morbidly, and she sighs, smiling tiredly.  “Want a cup of cocoa?”

“It couldn’t hurt.”  As she moves to put the kettle on the stove, he adds,  “You’re so brave, Chastity.”

“Me, brave?”  Chastity says, looking at him incredulously,  “Credence, can’t you see?  You’ve always been the bravest of us all.”

***

He sits in the same seat as the last time he was in Director Graves’ office, but this time there’s no Tina.  It’s just the director and him.

“You know the Department of Magical Surveillance placed a signature tracker on your obscurus.”

Credence nods.  “I know.”  He confirms, even though she wasn’t asking.

Her chair creaks as she leans back, crossing her legs.  “And yet you still used it, in front of a no-maj, no less.”

He bows his head.  “I have no excuse.”

“Actually, I think you do,”  she says abruptly, surprising him,  “And I want to hear it.”

He bites his lip, staring down at the angry half-moons he dug into his palms yesterday.  “The no-maj hurt my sister.”

“Then you should have informed the no-maj authorities, or taken care of it yourself,”  the director says,  “I personally recommend fists as an effective alternative to magic.”

He turns his hands over so he no longer has to look at the marks.  “My sister said the exact same thing.”

“Your sister is a smart woman.”  She sighs, and Credence looks up just in time to see her rub her forehead.  “Mr. Barebone, you are an intelligent young man.  You have so much potential, I’d hate to see you squander your career on a short temper.”

“I… I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing to me?”  She lifts her dark brown eyes, and they meet his.  It feels like drowning.  “You should be apologizing to yourself.”

“I…”

“We obliviated her, Mr. Barebone, so whatever you think you accomplished, you didn't.”

Credence feels tears spring to his eyes.  All that effort, and it was for nothing.  “I didn't want her touching my sister, is that so wrong?”  He says in a rush,  “I'm not strong, physically, I'm not good with words.  All I have is the darkness to protect my family, and I can't even use it.”

She frowns.  “You feel powerless, I understand, but our laws are in place for a reason.”

“Do you ever think that maybe the laws are wrong?”

Director Graves smiles at him sadly.  “Every moment of every day, Mr. Barebone.  That’s why I sit in this chair, that’s why I stand up in front of Congress and argue laws that I believe detrimental to the functioning of our society.  If you want to change something, you have to do it from the inside.”

He collapses in on himself, strings cut.  “I just want to take care of my sisters.”

“You are.  Soon you will be a fully fledged auror.  You will protect them, and every citizen of MACUSA while carrying the badge.”

“How can you say that?”  He asks, frustration making him want to scream,  “A hateful woman assaulted my sister.  Am I supposed to turn the other cheek and let her carry on in the same building as us?”

Director Graves frowns.  “Let me see what I can do about your neighbour.  Where do you live?”  She asks.

Credence tells her, and her eyes widen proportionally.

“What?”  He asks.

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.  “Nothing.”

“Am I dismissed?”  He spits out, regretting his tone the moment the words leave his mouth.  She doesn’t deserve his anger.

She tilts her head, and Credence leaves, angry at himself.

***

A plethora of furniture lies scattered on the curb, as he walks up to his building.  He recognizes a leather chesterfield from the Murray‘s flat.  Tommy and Eddie run in circles around the pile, laughing and fooling around.  Credence approaches them, a question on his lips.

“Boys, what’s going on?”

“Mama asked us to watch the furniture while she fetches a horse cart,”  Eddie says, jumping up and down like Modesty does after eating one too many of Chastity’s cream puffs.

“No, I mean, why is your furniture out on the curb in the first place?”

“Papa says the owner of the building asked the _super-de-tendant_ to _evacuate_ us.”  Tommy says from where he’s trying to climb onto Eddie’s back.

“Superintendent, and evict?”  Credence asks, dumbfounded.

Tommy snaps his fingers, nearly falling off his brother in the process.  “Them’s the words.  Golly gee, you’re real smart Miss Barebone.”

Credence grimaces at the honorific.  God knows their parents probably hammered it into their skulls.  He tries to correct him anyway.  “It’s Mister.”

“But Papa says—”

Credence sighs.  “It’s still Mister, no matter what your father says, but nevermind that now.  The owner?”

“The family that owns all the buildings on the street.  Um, the Tombs family?”  Eddie says.

“Graves,”  Credence whispers, eyes widening in surprise.

“How you keep doing that Miss… uh… Mister… are you a mind reader?”  Tommy asks, scrunching up his nose.

Credence smiles, ruffling Tommy’s hair.  “What would you say if I said yes?”

Tommy grins widely,  “I’d say that’s real swell.”

He chuckles.  “Take care of yourselves, Tommy, Eddie,”  Credence says,  “And don’t believe everything your parents say, they’re not infallible.”

Tommy tilts his head, exactly like a puppy dog.  “What’s that mean?”

Credence blinks.  “It means they’re not always right.”

“Well, of course not!”  Tommy exclaims,  “Papa’s been saying you’re a Miss all this time, and it turns out he was wrong!”

“Tell Modesty we’ll miss her,”  Eddie looks down at his feet, kicking his toe against the sidewalk.

Credence smiles sadly.  “I’ll be sure to let her know.”

“Bye, Mr. Barebone!”  Tommy and Eddie call out in a chorus as he waves farewell to them, feeling like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

***

Credence knocks on the door to Director Graves’ office, entering when she calls for him.

“Thank you,”  he says, standing in front of her desk.  She slides a pair of round spectacles off her nose, and gestures for Credence to sit down.

“No need to thank me, I like to maintain safe neighbourhoods among all the Graves family holdings, no-maj and wizard alike.”  She rubs at the bridge of her nose where the spectacles left an indentation on her skin.

“Still, you didn’t have to do that, so thank you anyway,”  he says, and Director Graves smiles kindly, her lips stretching wide.  Credence feels like he’s bathing in sunlight.  He clears his throat.

“How is your sister doing?”  She asks.

Credence fiddles with the buttons on his waistcoat.  “She misses her playmates, but there are many children her age in the area.”

The director gathers together all the papers on her desk, arranging them into a neat pile.  “I’ll ask the superintendent to choose a family with young children for the vacancy, how old is your sister?”

“Modesty is ten.”

“Her name is Modesty?”  She says, amused,  “Though I suppose it matches your name.  And your other sister is…?”

“Chastity.”  Credence pauses.  “Our mother was... a deeply religious woman.”

Director Graves nods her head once, but asks no more on the subject.  She pulls her watch from her ticket pocket.  “Are you hungry, Mr. Barebone?”

Ten minutes later finds them at a restaurant popular with MACUSA executives, across the street from the Woolworth.  He feels uncomfortable in the posh atmosphere, staring forlornly at the crystal vase filled with flowers at the centre of their small table.  Credence doesn’t know how he is supposed to afford anything on the menu.

“Order what you like,”  Director Graves says, spectacles back on her nose as she looks over the menu of daily specials,  “It’s my treat.”

Silently, Credence picks up the menu, reading over the specials, quickly deciding on the cheapest item.  He doesn’t think he’ll enjoy stuffed celery, but it cannot be all that bad if it’s made in such an expensive restaurant.

“Ready?”  She asks, looking at him over her menu.  Her round spectacles suit the shape of her face very well.  Director Graves is what many would call a handsome woman.  Her hair is grey at the shaved sides, but only a few strands lighten the dark sweep at the top of her head.  Her shoulders are broad, and her hips are too, her chest is... well...

He realizes he is staring, and quickly casts his gaze down, nodding.  She calls the waiter over, and they place their orders.

“Mr. Barebone—”

“You may call me Credence,”  he interrupts, horrifying himself for suggesting such familiarly, but she only smiles, amused.

“Credence, then.”  She doesn’t ask him to call her by her first name, thankfully.  He thinks he might faint if she did.  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Do I have to answer?”  He asks warily.

She smiles.  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

He considers, then eventually figures he could say nothing if her question bothers him.  “Okay, what is it?”

She taps a finger against her jaw, looking at him like he is a mystery to be solved.  “Why did you decide to become an auror?”

He was expecting a question about his mother, or his sisters, not something regarding his personal motivations.  The questions has him tipping his head to the side, thinking it over.

“Tina asked if I’d like to take the test during my fourth and final year at Ilvermorny, I think she saw something in me that even I didn’t,”  he says.

“What were you going to do before then?”  She asks, curious, but not prying.

Credence rubs his thumb and forefinger along the edge of his linen napkin.  “Honestly, I was planning on returning to New York, and retaking the job I worked before I met Tina.  It paid more than anything else I could find, and I needed the money to support my family.”

The director leans closer.  “And what was that?”

Credence studies the curious look on her face.  MACUSA isn’t under prohibition, nor does it consider itself a part of no-maj America.  A criminal record in one does not carry over to the other.  Still, many would frown upon the fact that he used to run contraband for the no-maj mob.

He doesn’t look away from her as he says,  “I used to keep no-maj speakeasies stocked with alcohol.”

She sits back in her chair, a brow quirked.  “You were a runner,”  she states.

He shrugs, trying to act nonchalant.  “It paid well.”

She sends him a private smile that has his heart beating doubly.  “I imagine it was also very thrilling.”

He swallows the lump in his throat.  “You could say that.”

“I suppose that’s another reason you decided to become an auror.”

“You were a reason, as well.”  Both of Director Graves’ brows lift in surprise.

“Pray tell.”

He swallows around the lump in his throat.  “Our instructor brought us to MACUSA to sit in on a caucus.  You were leading it, suggesting strategies to improve relations between aurors and the public.”  Credence plays with the stem of his water glass, rubbing away the condensation beneath his fingers.  “This was when I was already in the academy, but hearing you speak only cemented my desire to join your department.  He looks up, stumbling when he sees the soft smile on her face.  “You… uh… were very passionate and eloquent.”

“I’m sorry I don’t remember you,”  she says like she means it.

“We weren't introduced face to face, there’s no reason you would.”

“Still, you have a face that’s hard to forget.”  Credence’s cheeks floods with blood, and he nearly knocks over his glass, but rights it at the last moment.  Director Graves breaks their eye contact, and reaches for her watch, clearing her throat.  Thankfully, the arrival of the waiter breaks the charged moment.

Credence stares balefully down at his plate of celery sticks covered in what appears to be piped cream cheese.  Perhaps he should have ordered something different.  He takes a bite from one, and it makes a horribly loud noise as he chews.  He definitely should have ordered something different.

Later as he walks home, he throws his head back, the cold breeze running through his short hair.  His heart soars, and it feels like he’s flying through the heavens.  He sees Modesty playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, and strides over, picking her up and twirling her around.  She giggles happily, hands fisted in his coat.

“What’s gotten into you, Credence?”  She asks, the moment he puts her down.

“I love you a lot, Modesty,”  he says quite seriously.

She rolls her eyes, returning to her game.  “Well of course you do.  I’m easy to love.”

***

On the eve of all Saints’ day—a holiday so immensely popular in the wizarding world that the MACUSA cafeteria served nothing but pumpkin flavoured food all day long—Modesty waits for him by the front door as he returns from work.

Her clothing is turned inside out, so he can see the seams, and her shoes appear to be on the wrong feet.  She also wears on her head what appears to be a potato sack with two holes cut out for her eyes, and a large one for her nose and mouth.  A thick, deeply furrowed unibrow is drawn on the sack in charcoal.

“What on earth,”  he states, his mouth falling open.  He hasn’t even taken his shoes off yet.

Chastity comes around the corner and puts her hands on Modesty’s shoulders, smiling mischievously.  “You’re taking her guising.”

“I’m doing what, now?”

“Guising!”  Modesty exclaims, throwing her arms up in the air.  “Eddie told me about it months ago.  It’s what Irish children do on Hallowe'en.”

“That does not tell me anything.”

Chastity pushes Modesty towards him.  “Just take her around the neighbourhood, so she can threaten misfortune on people who deny her sweets, and make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.”

Credence stares at Chastity, unblinking.  “This is Modesty we’re talking about.”

“I can hear you, you know,”  she says petulantly.

“I know you can,”  he says, taking her by the hand.  What a strange custom.  They live in a predominantly Irish neighbourhood, so perhaps many children will be out _guising_.  “I’ll take you, but put your shoes on the right feet, or you’ll trip.”  He makes her button up her coat as well, even though it is inside out, a logistical problem that takes them a while to solve.

The night is chill by the time they make it outside.  He cannot believe he didn’t notice it until now, but there’s a rutabaga with a eerie face carved into it on their front step.

A gaggle of children run by, laughing at the top of their lungs.  “Sir?”  One of them asks, skidding to a stop,  “Mercy on your Christian soul for a cake?”

Credence has no such cakes in his pockets, but he’d hate to disappoint the child.  “How about a dime?”  He offers,  “You can buy yourself a cake.”

The boy nods enthusiastically, and Credence reaches in his ticket pocket, pulling out a shiny dime.  He flips it, and the boy catches it.  “May God bless your night, sir!”  He calls out, running after his friends.

“Let’s get out of here before he brings his friends,”  Modesty says, pulling him along, across the street.

“You’re taking me to your haunted house, aren’t you?”  Credence states when he sees the direction they’re going.

“Of course.  Tonight the veil between our world and the beyond is parted,”  she says,  “You’re bound to sense something!”

“Did Eddie tell you that too?”

She rolls her eyes.  “No.  Eddie is an idiot.”

“So you and Chastity have said,”  he says wryly.

“I read it in one of your textbooks,”  she explains, jumping over the cracks in the road,  “The pictures don’t move for me as they do for you, but they’re still pretty.”

“You’ll always be magical to me, Modesty,”  he says.

They stand together in front of the tall brownstone.  It looks more ominous tonight, if possible.  Credence even thinks he hears the call of an owl, coming from the roof.  The front steps, leading up to the door, host a collection of carved turnips and rutabagas, as scary as the one in front of their building.  These have tiny lights glowing from the inside, adding to the air of mystery.

Modesty grins.  “Let’s knock on the door,”  she suggests.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,”  he says as the sandstone gargoyles stare at them, their eyes wide and tongues unfurled,  “They probably don’t have cakes.”

“Of course they have cakes, they have carved turnips.  They’re meant to scare away evil spirits, so the house cannot be evil.”  Modesty tugs on his hand.  “Come on, Credence, please?”

Credence relents and lets her pull him up the stairs.  They wait in front of a great oaken door, and Modesty stands on the tips of her toes to lift the brass knocker.  She drops it with a resounding boom that sends shivers down his spine.

They don’t have to wait long before the door creaks open, and a figure emerges from the darkness to the candlelight outside.  Director Graves stands in front of them, a quirked smile on her face as she leans against the jamb.  She’s out of her work clothes, wearing only a pair of trousers and a tucked white shirt unbuttoned at the base of her throat.  His mouth goes dry.

“Mercy on your Christian soul for a cake?”  Modesty calls out happily, holding out her hands.  Credence blushes up to the tips of his ears, ready to explain.  Instead, Director Graves reaches out of view and returns with two cakes in hand.  She gives one to Modesty who takes it with a cheerful,  “Thank you!”  She offers the other to Credence with a wry smile.

He takes it, smiling back tentatively.

“What kind is it?”  Modesty asks excitedly.  “I hope it’s lemon, I love lemon cakes!”

“I think it’s a kind of lemon pound cake?”  The director scratches the edge of her jaw.  “I bought them from a local bakery.  I’m not a good baker,”  she explains sheepishly.

“Neither is Credence.  Chastity’s cream puffs are to die for, but Credence’s always come out burnt.”

“Thank you, Modesty,”  Credence says sarcastically as Director Graves throws her head back in laughter.  Credence stares, his mouth falling open ever so slightly.

“Are you a witch?”  Modesty asks conversationally, taking a large bite of her cake.

“I am.”

“See,” she says to Credence triumphantly,  “Eddie was right.”  She turns back to the director.  “I’m not a witch, but Credence is a wizard.  I think you’ll get along swell.”

“Is that so?”  Director Graves says, a twinkle in her eye.  She looks up at Credence and winks.  His heart beats so loudly he’s surprised it hasn’t yet fallen from his chest.

“Yes.”  Modesty nods, the top of the potato sack flapping about.  “Not to mention that you’re both so handsome.”

“Modesty...”  Credence groans in embarrassment.

“You’re right about that, Modesty—might I call you Modesty?”  The director asks, and his sister nods.  “Your brother is indeed very handsome.”

Credence fears that if this exchange goes on for any longer he might combust into flames on the spot.

“I’m sorry if we’re bothering you, Director Graves,”  he says weakly.

“Nonsense.”  She shakes her head.  “You could do no such thing.”

“ _Graves…_ ”  Modesty says, contemplative, before her eyes widen in recognition.  “You’re Credence’s boss!  He’s always talking about you at the dinner table.”

Credence wishes for a pit to open up beneath him and swallow him whole.

The director blinks in surprise.  “Good things I hope?”

“He calls you smart, kind, generous, and beautiful too!”  Modesty lists.

“We should really get going,”  Credence whispers, mortified.  He pulls Modesty down the steps, steadfastly not meeting Director Graves’ eyes.

“Credence!”  The director calls out by the time they are the next house over.  She stands at the bottom of her steps, arms wrapped around her torso against the cold, hair windswept and eyes wide.  “I’d like to see you in my office in the morning, please.”

He nods sadly, and leads a skipping Modesty away.  He’ll save the other cake for Chastity.  At this point it’ll only taste like mortification.

***

He knocks on the director’s opulently decorated door and announces himself, echoing his position from a few weeks ago.  He rests his head against the wood, waiting for her to call him in, but instead he feels it open beneath him.  He falls through, and right into the director’s surprised arms.  Before he can apologize, or pull away, she tugs him further inside and closes the door.

She stares at him, her hand fisted in his jacket, eyes unreadable.  He stares back, chest heaving in surprise, crosseyed from how close they stand.

“I…”  Credence starts,  “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,”  the director says firmly, tone allowing for no argument.

“I…  but I...”  Credence says, nearly at the point of tears.

“Please let me know if I’m reading this wrong,”  she murmurs, pushing him lightly against the wall.  She lets go of his shirt and gives him room to escape, but that’s the opposite of what he wants.  She looks up at him.  She’s an inch or two shorter, but still such a commanding presence.  “I’m going to kiss you,”  she declares.

“Oh,”  he says.  He tilts his head and closes his eyes.

Her lips are soft as they touch his for a brief moment.  He goes weak at the knees, and grabs at the director’s shoulders to keep himself steady.  Her hand slides down his neck, fingers slipping beneath his collar, but she keeps her attentions above his shoulders.

She cups his jaw, and pulls him in for another kiss.

His fists wrinkle the fabric beneath his hands, but he doesn’t care as he moves his lips, copying what she does.  His blood races through his veins, and his heart beats overtime.  The taste of salt on his tongue pulls him back to reality.

“Merlin.”  She grimaces as she pulls back, getting a good look at his face.  “Please don’t cry.”

“I’m feeling very emotional right now, I’ll cry if I want to,”  he snaps, moisture beading at the corners of his eyes.

She rests her forehead against his.  “Fuck.  What am I going to do with you?”

“As I see it,”  Credence says, looking at her lips now that he finally has permission to do so,  “You’re not technically my superior officer, that’s Captain Carneirus.”

“Not for long.  She’s retiring soon.”  She leans closer.  “Don’t tell anyone I said this, but she nominated Tina as her successor.”

Credence blinks away his tears.  “Really?  That’s amazing!”

“I doubt Tina will accept the position if I promote her, she’s always been a lone wolf, and captain is a very community oriented position.”

“You won’t know for certain unless you ask,”  Credence says.

The director hums thoughtfully, pushing his hair out of his face.  “You are right.”

“Director?”  Credence asks.

“Please call me by my name when we’re alone,”  she requests, gaze dipping, uncharacteristically shy.

“Graves?”

“Close enough.”  She chuckles, and Credence is near enough to see that the corners of her eyes crinkle.  He wants to run his fingers along the lines.  “What is it?”

“Kiss me again?”  He requests.

She smiles, leaning back in.  “Why of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the treat prompt #11: "Credence takes his little sister trick-or-treating and she insists on going to the scariest house/apartment/whatever in the area — which everyone knows is haunted and satanists sacrificed a baby there thirty years ago or whatever. He doesn’t want to refuse her, so he knocks on the door… And it opens to Percival Graves."
> 
> This has been a treat, I'm posting the fill for the trick prompt a little later in the month, as the season gets spookier.


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